


Loyal

by ACometAppears



Series: Who The Hell Is Bucky? [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The soldier looks up from his drink, his eyes peeking out from under a mop of shaggy brown hair. He was planning on finishing his whiskey quickly and leaving before anyone realised he hadn’t paid, but now he’s captivated by a man whose gaze is currently fixed on the TV behind the bar, eyeing the figure on the screen with malice . . .  The soldier has learned to distinguish one voice from them all – the voice of someone being disrespectful to Steve Rogers." </p><p>Bucky gets into a bar-fight when someone insults Steve - even if he can't fully remember who he is, and can't bring himself to face him. Second part of the 'Who The Hell Is Bucky?' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyal

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series ('Who The Hell Is Bucky?'), beginning with my fic 'Uncanny'. There will be at least one more in this series. Cheers!!

“If you ask me, that guy should be in jail,”

 _But no one did ask you_. The soldier looks up from his drink, his eyes peeking out from under a mop of shaggy brown hair. He was planning on finishing his whiskey quickly and leaving before anyone realised he hadn’t paid, but now he’s captivated by a man whose gaze is currently fixed on the TV behind the bar, eyeing the figure on the screen with malice.

Captain Steven Rogers. _Captain America_.

“He helped give away all those secrets, and fucked off. And now, we’re screwed,” The guy says, shaking his head and finally looking at the bartender, who grimaces at him, but says nothing. “Not very patriotic of him, is it?”

The bartender looks down. He’s wiping a glass with a rag, the squeaking noise masked by the noise of the chatter of the many other patrons. But the soldier has learned to distinguish one voice from them all – the voice of someone being disrespectful to Steve Rogers.

 _Steve Rogers saved my life_ , he thinks. _Steve Rogers is with me til the end of the line_.

He looks down at his drink and gulps, as a surge of some unfamiliar emotion causes a hideous clot in his throat, that makes him feel sick; he fees a strange, unwelcome pressure build up behind his eyes, as if he’ll explode if he doesn’t do something about all these … These _thoughts_ , soon. He doesn’t consider that the word he’s searching for isn’t ‘thoughts’, but feelings.

_I’m no better than that man_ , he thinks. _I don’t have the courage to confront Captain Rogers to his face. I tried to hurt him, like this man is trying to insult him – even though he’s done nothing but good._

_He’s too good for me_ , the soldier thinks. _I’m worth nothing. I don’t deserve him._

In the days since the museum, the soldier has been coming to terms with the things he has done – remembering missions and targets, victims and death tolls. He can’t reconcile the Winter Soldier with Bucky Barnes, and it’s tearing him apart. There’s just so much to think about – so many good deeds, outweighed by so much bad. He cannot escape this feeling; he has no guide, no one to help him. Sure, Steve Rogers told him he was his friend, and he would always be there for him, but … But he is ashamed. Ashamed of how he acted. Ashamed of how he hurt him. Ashamed of all that he’s done, and most of all, ashamed of not being Bucky.

Not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever.

He’s just not worthy of Steve’s friendship; he doesn’t deserve it, after all he’s done. He deserves to suffer through this alone, and feel the weight of every loss he’s ever inflicted, intentional or not. Someone that pure, that selfless, doesn’t need someone like the Winter Soldier around to sully him, and bring him down with them.

So, with no one and nothing else to turn to, Bucky drinks. He feels crushing disappointment when he discovers he cannot get drunk anymore, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

He doesn’t know it, but the strange pressure and hot, twisting feeling he’s experiencing at that moment are the beginnings of weeping. He shoves it down, like always. No tears fall.

“Court-marshalled. We don’t need a Captain America who’s just gonna betray _America_ , do we?”

The soldier bristles, gripping his drink tightly with his right hand. His left is shoved in his pocket, but the metal digits clench in on each other like five vices, and he’s sure sparks will fly. He seriously considers slamming the metal limb down on the bar top, as a warning to this fucking asshole.

_Steve Rogers is the only reason you’re here right now. Steve Rogers is the only reason I’m here right now._

_Steve Rogers is not my mission, he is my friend. I can’t see him, and I don’t know why I trust him, but you can’t say a damn word against him while I’m here. You’re not allowed._

_I've killed for less before. I’ll kill for less again, though he wouldn’t like it._

_But he’s not here right now. That’s part of the problem._

“Hey,” A reprimanding voice calls above the crowd, drawing both the complaining man and the soldier’s attentions. “Cut that guy some slack. He saved the lives of millions of people,”

The soldier’s eyebrows raise, and he cranes his neck slightly. He sees past the asshole who’s complaining to the apathetic bartender, and sees a man with a disapproving gaze and dark eyes, staring at the guy with the contempt he deserves. The soldier catches his eye, for a long moment.

The guy pauses: he looks a little taken aback at the intensity of the soldier’s gaze, steely and sizing him up from along the bar. He freezes, unsure what the soldier’s intention is; he feels as if he’s about to be attacked. He holds his breath, for a moment.

But then the soldier nods once. Slowly, deliberately, and with the utmost sincerity.

The asshole doesn’t notice. He’s looking at the TV screen. The soldier isn’t fond of that particular invention.

“Sure he did – if you believe what they’re saying. Just a week ago, he was public enemy number one, and now he’s not facing any fucking consequences?”

The soldier tenses up once more; the man who stuck up for Steve Rogers frowns and opens his mouth for another rebuttal, but the asshole strikes again, this time with a blow that makes the soldier freeze, and makes his eyes widen, and his breath come short. A bystander might think he’s having a panic attack, when he hears the words –

“He didn’t even catch that fucking Winter Soldier guy – the one they’re denying exists. It’s clear as day. I heard they’re _best buddies_ if you know what I mean – it’s a conspiracy, I’m telling you. Figures, though – any guy who dresses up like that’s gotta be a fag,”

After freezing for two seconds – an eternity, for a man as stealthy and swift as the soldier – his mind goes utterly blank.

The next thing he knows, the bar is empty – everyone has cleared out. There is blood splattered on the bar top. The bartender is cowering behind the bar.

The asshole is on the floor, one of his front teeth shattered upon impact with the bar. But, sure enough, he’s is alive - because _what would Steve say, what would Steve think of you?_

There’s a slash in the soldier’s left sleeve, showing shining metal beneath, where someone tried to go for him. His metal hand is splattered with blood from blows to noses, and his breathing is far too calm: none of the heaving breaths he’s seen in his adversaries are present; nor is the the fear, or the panic they experienced.

He can’t remember knocking out over half of the men that now lie at his feet, passed-out and still. Everyone else cleared out. He’s sure the bartender is calling 911, but he’s very quiet about it. He’ll leave now, anyway.

He strides towards the door, flexing his metal fingers and wiping them on his trousers with a frown. His flesh fingers find their way to his face – personal grooming is new to him, and he isn’t quite ready to handle a razor in a way that doesn’t involve cutting someone’s throat yet – but the tickle of blood on his skin irritates, and reminds him of the period of time he let the Winter Soldier take over.

But he’s not the Winter Soldier right now. The guilt beginning to poke at his soul – the mangy scraps that are left of it – that definitely belongs to the soldier; to sergeant Barnes.

As he heads to the door, he spots someone cowering behind a chair: his gaze flicks to the man, and his metal fist raises automatically, his eyes wide and zoning in on his face, tense and and ready to recoil; to become the Winter Soldier once more – a weapon.

But when the man looks up, his eyes shining and wary – fearful, Bucky realises with a stab of sadness and guilt – he sees that it’s the man who stood up for Steve earlier. The good Samaritan. The only man in this goddamn bar that didn’t jump on him for attacking a man who deserved a beating for what he said about Steve.

Yes, him and Steve – they were friends, and they shared a – a _bond_ , and it was deep, and all they had was each other – Steve had been the last thing to go, the last thing to be erased, the thing that stuck fastest – a long time ago … All they’d had – all they needed, still –

But the disgusting language he’d used was bile, leaving an awful taste in Bucky’s mouth, and summoning the Winter Soldier. He attacked the man, and anyone who leapt to his defense until there was no one left.

Except the Samaritan, here. He didn’t attack Bucky – the Winter Soldier didn’t beat him down. And he wouldn’t, either.

When he’d looked at the man who’d been insulting Steve, he’d seen a bully. He’d seen a memory of some scrawny kid in a back alley, beat up by some two-bit thug; by a bully who didn’t know Bucky was coming, to kick his ass and defend that kid. That kid looked a lot like Captain America, but thinner, and – and _smaller_. And that bully had looked like the guy who had been talking shit about Steve just now.

The guy who’d stood up for Steve isn’t a bully, though. He doesn’t deserve the beating the Winter Soldier could give him – he deserves the opposite.

After a second more of staring into the man’s eyes, completely motionless and sizing him up for the second time in around five minutes – _five minutes for this many men, that’s got to be a record, soldier_ – he tentatively extends his flesh hand to the man, lowering his left fist to his side, to hang there, a heavy weight like the rest of the arm; a constant manifestation of the burden of his guilt. A constant reminder that he’s a glorified weapon.

_And what use is a weapon with a conscience?_

“… Thanks,” The Samaritan tells him. He nods once. _It’s nothing_. The man’s eyes try to stay on his face, though inevitably they travel to the flash of silver visible via the torn slash in his jacket sleeve, unsure of what it is. _I’ll repair it later. Steve would want me to repair it – he wouldn’t approve of being seen with some hobo with a torn jacket_ , a sarcastic voice in the soldier’s head tells him – a voice that he doesn’t even realise is extraordinarily close to that of the old Bucky.

“… Who are you?” The Samaritan asks. He doesn’t know the complexity of the question he’s asked; the soldier doesn’t have long to answer it, either, so he just repeats what he’s been told.  
“… James. James Barnes,” He tells him, though the name doesn't feel right on his tongue. The man pauses for a moment, looking him up and down; the next sentence from his mouth is careful and calculated, though still incredibly wary - he clearly knows he’s playing with fire … Or, well – with ice.

“… My grandfather was a Jim. Jim Morita … You a Jim?”

The soldier gulps, his muscles seizing up; that stupid lump in his throat is back, as he remembers the museum exhibit, that giant fucking mural, the Howling Commandos, the cliffs, the train, and fall, the snow, the rocks, the agony and the blood and the red the red _the red_ -

But he also remembers drinking in a bar, not unlike this one, with a man not unlike this one. With a whole bunch of them. With new friends – fellow prisoners, escapees – and their rescuer, his friend, his best friend, _couch cushions on the floor, you can shine my shoes, just like old times, I’m with you til the end of the line-_

It takes him a few seconds to realise the man has reached out to his left side, wanting to shake hands, and saying something like, _get outta here – I won’t tell ‘em-_

He makes his decision: he knows this man, or at least, from whence he came - his grandfather - and he will probably never see him again. It’s not just the decision about whether he can trust him that he makes, though – it’s something more than that, as he reaches out with his left hand, and before the other man can recoil, takes the flesh hand in his own metal one.

It’s then that he knows he can’t do this alone. He needs help … This man extending an olive branch to him has made him feel something he hasn’t felt since Steve Rogers addressed him like a human, like an _equal_ on that helicarrier. He feels wanted, and – and _human_. Even though he’s just beaten up all these men, for one fucking comment … He isn’t beyond redemption, as long as there’s still one person in his corner. It can’t be this guy – he’s just some guy, the grandson of a guy he half-remembers fighting with – it’s got to be someone else. He knows who he wants it to be, now, for definite.

He needs to find Steve. He needs to apologise, and atone. He needs to find the courage to swallow his pride, and his guilt, and his thousand-ton shame, and accept the help he’s been offered. _You already pulled Rogers from that river_ , a small voice laced with heavier tones of Brooklyn than he’s used to tells him, _it’s not about what you deserve – it’s about what he needs … You gotta let him help you, too. Let him return the favour. I bet he’s dying to – and he’s dying to see you, he’s disappeared lately, they say he’s looking for you-_

Jim Morita’s grandson’s eyes widen, as the metal hand grasps tighter – cold, with strength obvious in the tension it creates – but not too tightly. He’s as gentle as he knows how to be, shaking the man’s hand once, as he tells him,  
“No, I’m not a Jim,” His voice is far away, and his eyes are glossed over as he watches their intertwined hands for a moment more, before making his stealthy getaway, undetected into the night.  
“… I’m a Bucky,”


End file.
